Baker Street Blues
by Continuations
Summary: Drama at Baker Street. Sherlock has slipped into depression, and his actions have calamitous consequences for everyone around him.
1. Chapter 1

Sherlock lies on the beaten sofa, the gun in his hands. Bored, so incredibly bored. He hasn't worked on a case for over a month, and despite John's best efforts he doesn't plan on doing so any time soon. He looks back to the gun, memorising every detail. He already knows exactly what it looks like though, down to the minute initials engraved on the barrel - "SH". His fathers, and his, initials.  
>The door clicks downstairs. John has arrived back, the traffic must have been bad today. He's usually back at an average time of 5:15, the clock hanging above the mantel reads 5:32 and 20 seconds.<br>"Afternoon Sherlock" says John, upbeat. Happily ignorant, in his own little simple world. He notes he is carrying shopping, that accounts for the time delay. Stupid, stupid. Even his mind is dulling.  
>"Sherlock, anyone home?" John is standing right in front of him now.<br>"Hm, what?" he replies looking up. John sighs.  
>"I just wondered if you wanted tea?"<br>"Oh, no." Sherlock replies.  
>John notices the gun in Sherlock's hand. He's been increasingly worried about Sherlock over the past month and a half, he's stopped leaving the house and doesn't help L'estrade with cases. Mycroft has been visiting a lot and is also worried, he's been thinking of ways to get him back on his feet. So far nothing has worked. He walks over to the counter and starts making tea.<br>"Oh, I'm going over to Sarahs later on" John adds.  
>"Dinner." He says it more like a statement than a question.<br>"Yeah, just a nice night in."  
>They lapse into silence again.<br>"Right, I'm going to get changed. See you in a minute" John finally says.  
>Sherlock stares intently at a small crack in the wall opposite him. Finally John goes upstairs. Stupid stupid stupid stupid John, with his stupid Sarah and stupid inane life. He slumps his head over the arm of the sofa and then curls into a ball.<br>_"Don't disturb him" Warns Mycroft, his voice quiet.__  
><em>_Sherlock is outside his fathers study, about to knock.__  
><em>_"You can't tell me what to do." He replies, defiantly.__  
><em>_"You don't understand, you're just a stupid little boy. Leave him alone he doesn't want to be bothered." Mycroft smiles cruelly and walks off down the corridor. Sherlock just watches him go, and looks at the door debating._

"Sherlock" Johns voice is loud and grating.  
>"What" Sherlock snaps at him, but after seeing John's face he instantly regrets it. He seems to age when he anxious, the worry lines on his forhead more prominent.<br>"I'll see you later" John repeated, Sherlock could tell this by his tone of voice. Slow, patronising. Like he was speaking to a child.  
>Sherlock nodded in response, waiting for him to leave already. Waiting for John and his anxious face to leave him in peace. John took one last look around the room, and then picked up his set of keys from table. Shutting the building door behind him he walked to the end of Baker Street, before taking the phone out of his pocket. Selecting mycrofts number he composes a text:<br>_S on own in flat for eve.__  
><em>_Bit worried.__  
><em>_Keep an eye out.__  
><em>_John__  
><em>He presses send, then hails a cab.

Meanwhile, Sherlock sits on the sofa at home. The flat is semi-dark and the only light comes from a small lamp in the corner, and the laptop. He looks at the gun again.  
><em>Sherlock finally decides to knock. Tat-tat.<em>_  
><em>_Nothing but silence comes from the room. __  
><em>_This is unusual, he thinks. It's either come in, or a rage at being disturbed.__  
><em>_Never silence. But Sherlock knows his father is in there, he entered his study this morning before the Mother, he and Mycroft left to go to the shopping district. He never leaves his study before noon, and it most definitely wasn't noon yet.__  
><em>_He gripped the doorhandle, and opened the door.__  
><em>_The dust hung in the air, the sun hitting it made the room look small and claustrophobic.__  
><em>_The sun blinded him, and he could see his fathers silhouette, hunched at the desk.__  
><em>_He walked closer, and then froze. Blood was dripping from the left hand side of his head, gun to the right of his chair, and on the right hand side you could clearly see a small, clean, neat hole.__  
><em>_"Mycroft" he said weakly, not able to shout..__  
><em>_"MYCROFT" more loudly this time.__  
><em>_He heard quick footsteps from the outside of the hallway, and Mycroft appeared at the doorway.__  
><em>_"Oh god" he said quietly.__  
><em>_He walked quickly up.__  
><em>_"Sherlock, look at me. " He pulled him out of the room and into the hallway.__  
><em>_"Stay here, do you hear?" He looked into his eyes.__  
><em>_Mycroft ran down the stairs__  
><em>_"MUMMY" he shouted.__  
><em>_"Mikey?" came his mothers voice.__  
><em>_"QUICK, COME NOW." he said, urgently.__  
><em>_Sherlock heard them walking upstairs, Mycroft talking quickly. __  
><em>_"Something terrible has happened Mummy. Father..." he drifted off.__  
><em>_Mother walked quickly into the room, then came back out again. Her face was white and taut. __  
><em>_She started to talk, but her face crumpled and she started to sob. Sherlock stood against the wall, utterly petrified. Mycroft hugged her and tried to console her, but he was crying now too. Too many emotions, too complicated. Sherlock snapped into attention and walked away from them both, distancing himself from it. __  
><em>_He closed the door behind him. Only then did the tears begin to fall.__  
><em>

Back at the flat, Sherlock closes his eyes and lets out a quiet groan.


	2. Chapter 2

The Prime Minister was in the middle of a long and tedious briefing when Mycroft's phone buzzed. Slipping it out of his pocket and unlocking it with one smooth motion he checked it, a message from John showed up on the screen.  
><em>S on own in flat for eve.<em>  
><em>Bit worried.<em>  
><em>Keep an eye out.<em>  
><em>John<em>  
>He deftly keyed a reply. He must be getting bad if John was worried about leaving him for the evening. He decided as soon as this briefing was over he would visit Baker Street and have a little chat with his brother.<br>_Thanks for warning._  
><em>Will do.<em>  
><em>-MH<em>

Sherlock sits against the wall his head in his hands, life crushing down on him like a weight. The room is still dark, like his mood. He stands up and paces round the table. He slumps back down on the sofa. He looks around the room, the box of lithium tablets leer at him from the highest kitchen shelf.  
>Finally Sherlock gets up and logs onto the computer, checking his emails. Nothing new.<br>"Nothing new" He said slowly, enunciating every syllable. Just like his life.  
>Slammed the computer shut and walked upstairs, taking the gun with him. He laid in bed, and curled into the foetal position. Trying to block out all the thoughts. Stop thinking, you fool. Turn off your mind. He concentrated on keeping his mind blank, impossible.<br>"Fuck" he muttered under his breath. Slowly he sat up and dropped his legs over the side of the bed.  
>He sat on the end of the bed, the gun in his right hand. Living in this hellish world - Or the gun.<br>Gun, said his consciousness. John would get over it eventually, after all they were only flatmates. Mycroft would be the only real person who would care, and he could go to hell for all Sherlock minded.

#~#

Mycroft was still worrying about his brother, as he always did. Somewhere at the back of his mind, he always had a nagging worry that Sherlock might be doing something stupid, or reckless. He covertly checked his watch; he estimated there was another 20 minutes left of the briefing.  
>He was tempted to go check straight away, and just get Alison to copy the notes up and send them to him. Not that he needed to hear anything this man was saying, he'd already considered all major security strategies for the next year.<br>Mycroft slid out his phone, another text from John.  
><em>Have you checked in on him?<em>  
><em>John<em>

He stood up, this really couldn't wait any longer.  
>"Emergency" he addressed the meeting.<br>He flipped out his phone and texted Sherlock as he walked.  
><em>I have a new case for you, if interested<em>  
><em>- Mycroft.<em>  
>Obviously he didn't, but this might poke a response out of him. That would be enough to go on for the 10 minutes it would take to get to 221b. He hailed a cab and jumped in. Check the phone, no response, as always.<br>"Baker Street, QUICKLY." He instructed the cabbie.

#~#

Sherlock quickly walked downstairs. He might as well make a quick note to Mycroft and John. Mycroft might stupidly assume it was a murder or assassination. He settled for a quick utilitarian note. 4 sentences only, none of the sentimental stuff you usually got from these people. Ugh.

#~#

The taxi skidded to a halt outside the flat and Mycroft got out of the. He knocked twice. No answer. Good job John had provided him with a spare key to the flat in case of emergencies. He quickly climbed the stairs taking it two steps at a time, breathlessly he burst into the living room. No Sherlock. Shoes, coat, umbrella by door, he was still here then. Phone and laptop on table, papers. Box of tablets on the top shelf, lithium. Not used for about a 2 months, judging by the dust. Then he saw the scrap of paper on the table. Everything just fell into place.  
>Mycroft froze for a second, then walked up to the table.<br>"No, no..." he whispered, bolting up the stairs. Both lights off, doors closed. He burst into Sherlocks room.  
>Sherlock was sat at the edge of the bed, gun raised to his temple. One click, that was all he needed for all this boredom and crushing despair to go away.<br>"Put that gun down right now" Mycroft's voice echoed from behind him.  
>Sherlock turned around, still holding the gun to his head.<br>"Sherlock, I'm warning you. Don't do this" He took a step forward.  
>"Stop moving." Came Sherlock's voice, cold. He disengaged the safety catch.<br>"This isn't you talking, Sherlock. You're better than this, and do you know what? I expected better." He started.  
>"You, doing this. Selfish. John actually cares for you, he would be the one to find you if he hadn't sent me a text saying how worried he is about you. And you just throw all his care back in his face. Do you want me to tell him his best friend is dead? How do you think this is going to make him feel?" Mycroft was getting into his stride now.<br>"Do this for me, do this for John." He added quietly.  
>Sherlock let out a heavy sigh, and engaged the safety. He quickly threw the gun on the floor and kicked it across to Mycroft. In a swift motion Mycroft picked it up and removed the bullets and trigger pin before pocketing it. He walked over slowly.<br>"Hands up" as he patted down Sherlock's pockets; checking for any other weapons or harmful objects. Finally Mycroft was content his brother was safe for the time being.  
>"Wrists" His brother held them out in front of him, and he clicked on a pair of handcuffs.<br>"Right, your coming with me." He said, before leading Sherlock down the stairs.  
>Mycroft sat Sherlock down on the sofa, and made a few quick calls. One to Sofia; asking for her to make up a room back at the house. Without windows, He added. Then one to Alison.<br>"I need a car at 221b Baker Street. Quickly please." He disconnected. He grabbed the box of tablets off the top shelf and filled a glass of water.

"Take these now." He said firmly, handing 2 to his brother. Outside, the car sent for them beeped.  
>As soon as Sherlock finished taking the pills he helped him up. "Let's go" he said gently, ushering him out of the door and helping him into the car before taking the passenger seat at the front.<p>

"Take us home" He requested to the driver.

And as the car sped away into the drizzling night John got out of the cab and unlocked the door to the flat.

* * *

><p>Feel free to comment and review - I would love to hear what you think. Especially since this is my first Fanfic.<p> 


	3. Chapter 3

Mycroft led Sherlock into the study, still handcuffed, shutting the door behind him. He motioned for Sherlock to down, and he did.

"This is really not necessary Mycroft..." started Sherlock,.

"There is significant evidence to the contrary..." said Mycroft, raising his eyebrows.

Sherlock noted it was the most original room in the house. Many of the others had been modernised or modified, but after Mycroft inherited the house he had kept this one the same. He had always told Sherlock it was because he liked the look of the room, but underneath Sherlock knew that it was in memorial to his father. Mycroft interrupted his thoughts when he started to talk.

"You can't just stop taking the tablets. How many times do you have to do this to understand: It won't just go away..." he said angrily, pausing for breath "It's a serious condition, Bipolar. You know this. Either you take the Lithium or you will get the mood swings.". Sherlock just let his brothers words wash over him, concentating on the intricate engraving of the wooden panelling. He was angry, understandably. Sherlock would let Mycroft take it out on him and get it out of his system. It was always a weakness of Mycrofts, he was far too emotional.

"...and I know how much you hate feeling dependent on anything or anyone. You can't just use your intellect to get out of this one, you need to play by its rules. You end up hurting the people who care for you." he stopped, looking at Sherlock. "Are you even paying attention to me" He said, angrily.

Sherlock nodded and motioned. "Of course".

Mycroft sat, watching him for a few seconds "Why do you do it" he finally asked. "If you know what happens, why?"

"You already know Mycroft, I'm not explaining this again." Sherlock said calmly. "You're good with people. You tell me"

"You enjoy the highs." said Mycroft, measuring his reaction. "The energy it gives you, it heightens your intellect" he said, not breaking eye contact. "There is also an issue of control. You don't like having to take them because it makes you feel dependent, and vunerable." Mycroft shifted slightly, "...AND you're a perfectionist, by not taking it you worry you could have missed something, a tiny detail. You can't stand not knowing if you're being the best you can be."

There was silence again, the clock in the corner accentuating the seconds going by. Finally, Sherlock replied, quietly.

"Yes" he stared at the ground, his face taut. "I can't help it." his eyes finally meeting Mycroft's.

"I want you to stay here for a week, just until you sort yourself out again" Mycroft said Firmly

Sherlock paused for a second, "...and what if I don't agree" he said.

"Then I'll get you sectioned under the mental health act" Mycroft said in a clipped voice.

Sherlock sighed. He knew when he was beaten. "Fine, only a week though." he said, nonchalantly as he could muster. That was the longest period of time he could tolerate being near his obnoxious brother, he didn't even know if he could stand that long.

"I'm glad we could come to an agreement" Mycroft said smugly. Reaching into his pocket he took out the keys for the cuffs and unlocked them. "See you at dinner" he said smiling mildly.

Sherlock stood up and walked quickly out.

As soon as he left, Mycroft slumped into his chair. His brother could be so very selfish sometimes. He slipped the phone out of his jacket, however when he saw the display he sat up.

_3 missed calls (John)._

Mycroft froze, drawing on his memory of the flat. _Table, Empty box, note left on the table._

A flash of realisation crossed Mycrofts face. Stupid amateurish mistake, god he must be getting old. He hadn't phone to explain the situation. John will be out of his mind with worry.

He dialled the mobile, but it went to answerphone immediately. Phone either off, out of charge or out of signal. John is in London, there is signal everywhere, he wouldn't turn his phone off at a time like this - flat battery is the only option then.

Calm, first imperative is to locate John and tell him Sherlock is safe.

He paused for a second, then pressed the speed dial button.

"Lestrade, Mycroft Holmes here." pause "Yes, I need you to put the force on the alert to find a Mr John Watson. Yes... Yes. Straight away, I can't explain now. I'll be there in 10 minutes". He disconnected, and a movement caught his eye Sherlock stood leaning against the doorframe. "What was that about?" he said asked.

"John wasn't made aware of the situation, and he's looking for you right now." Mycroft said.

"You left the note on the table and the box."

"If you hadn't done this in the first place..." Mycroft said, tersely.

"I'll help look" Said Sherlock, grabbing the phone out of his pocket.

"No. You'll stay here. I've got the whole of the Met out looking for him. I don't need to be worrying about you out there as well as John" He said, walking towards the door

"And before you think about it, I have all the keys to the cars" he said, not looking back.

Sherlock glared at him as he walked away. Of all the people who could have been his sibling...

#~#

John stood in frozen, staring at the note on the table.

Sherlock, dying. Sherlock , dead.

"No no no.." he shouted, breaking into a run up the stairs. "Sherlock, Sherlock" he called out checking both the bedrooms. No body... yet.

"Fuck, fuck. I need to phone Mycroft" he muttered desperately, running back down the stairs at breakneck speed. He fumbled on the keys, and selecting the right number seemed to take an age. Finally it started to ring.

"Please pick up, Please pick up" he repeated to himself. The call went onto voicemail. "Bugger" he said, trying again, and again.

The only time in the world he actually needed Mycroft and he wasn't picking up, typical.

John stuffed the phone in his pocket, his eyes darting around the room. He had absolutely no idea what to do. He had left Sherlock here hours, he could be anywhere in London by now. It was at this moment he damned himself for not being clever like Sherlock; he would know exactly what to do, but he could be about to die. Or it could be already too late.

John pushed that particular thought to the back of his mind. Pulling on his coat, he ran down the stairs and out into the street. The heavy rain pricked his face, he looked wildly about. No one was in sight. "Sherlock" he shouted again. There was no reply, he hadn't expected one. He started jogging down the street, moving into a sprint. John had lost a lot of fitness from his army days, and he stumbled to a halt, doubling over and breathless after about 500 metres. Tears, sweat and rain streaked down his face. He walked as fast as he could, over and through the local park.

He tried to think about where he would go if we wanted to kill himself, but finding it difficult to dispel the image of Sherlock dead on the grass. He walked down the steps, and in the pitch black darkness beginning to jog slowly along the path.

Suddenly he felt his shin crack on something hard and cold, and he went flying. He felt his head collide with granite, and all he could taste was blood and salt as his vision clouded over and he fell into unconsciousness.


	4. Chapter 4

Mycroft sat silently on the uncomfortable plastic chair at the station. It had been 3 or so hours since the search for John had been started and still nothing had come back. Of course, it wasn't technically a search, but all active police patrols had been put on the lookout for him, but at this point Mycroft was thinking about changing this. He looked towards the door, outside he could hear cheap brogues (that would be Lestrade then) approaching. The door clicked open and he walked in, looking harrowed. Poor man, thought Mycroft. These past few years hadn't been good to him a long and messy divorce had left him financially worse-off, and he had aged rapidly over the time. His hair now mostly greying, and several distinctly new wrinkles on his face.

"Not good news, I'm afraid" as he walked towards Mycroft, stopping a few feet in front of him.

"No luck finding him?" Mycroft replied.

"We've found him..." Lestrade said, looking down.

#~#

Sherlock lay on the bed. It had been a very long time since he had been in this room, almost 10 years in fact. It was interesting how little it had changed, he had been wrong about Mycroft earlier, not all the rooms were modified. Probably his brothers sentimental side showing again. After laying for about 2 minutes he was bored. This house was boring. Only another week to go, he thought, closing his eyes.

#~#

Smith and Davison rounded the corner of the street and looked around. They were on the lookout for a middle aged man, quite short brown hair - They weren't given a reason.

The street was dark and deserted, and oily puddles reflected iridescently from the street lights.

"Horrible night" Smith stated, burrowing down into the collar of her police jacket.

"Yeah" Davison replied huskily. He was really regretting not taking the day off now, his cold had become worse over the day and his boots were soaking. He almost couldn't believe it when he was called back in to search for the missing man. Typical. They almost at the end of the street now, and the gates to the municipal park loomed. Smith blinked through the rain, this was her usual beat and something seemed different about the view. She stopped, and turned on her flashlight.

"Oh no.." she muttered under her breath. "Davison!" She shouted at him, as he hadn't noticed her stop.

"Come on, Ang!" He called back in reply.

"No, come here, we have a problem" She shouted back, walking through the gates and down the steps.

Davison jogged up to meet her "What are you talking.." he stopped when he saw what Smith was looking at.

Smith was already on her radio. "This is Beta-1-5-4, I think we've found J. Watson. Backup and medics required". She started to drag him out of the fountain, trying to move his back as little as possible. He seemed to be alive, if only just, and was drawing wretched breaths. His chest shuddered in and out with each breath. His skin was puckered and pale, and his hair was matted with blood. Smith took off her jacket and put it over him.

"The medics should be here any minute." She said, trying to reassure Davison, who was looking pale.

The rain continued to pour down drenching everything beneath, and in the distance the distinctive sound of an ambulance siren sounded out.


	5. The Game Begins

_Sorry for the delay in posting this, I've been thinking hard about it. This chapter is quite short, but this is more of a build up for the finale. Get ready for a shock._

After he had phoned Sherlock, Mycroft slide the phone out of his pocket and consulted a piece of paper before dialling a number into his mobile. Pressing call he put the phone to his ear.

"Hello. Is that Harriet Watson?" he said; and after a pause, "I'm afraid I have some bad news…"

#~#

Sherlock and Mycroft walked up the polished hospital corridor in tense silence, as they walked up to waiting room their footsteps echoed on the polished plastic floor. The door clicked open after a few seconds and they walked into the ward.

They were led towards a hospital bed in the far corner of the ward. Sherlock stared at the person on the bed - taking in all the details. They were hardly identifiable, the left side of the face was swollen up, and a huge black bruise had spread across the eye and forehead, and 15 stitches ran across his eyebrow, jutting out like sticks in mud. His head had been shaved and he had a dressing and bandage running around the left time of his head, Sherlock shivered. From under the bedsheet a casted leg protruded, and pins jutted from the shin area.

Sherlock walked up to the bed until he was standing directly beside it.

"How long will the recovery take?" He asked quietly, his eyes glued to John's face.

"The doctors don't know, it could be a few weeks, or Mycroft was cut off by a voice from across the room.

"OI. Holmes." Sherlock's head snapped round, and he came almost face to face with an angry looking woman holding a coffee.

"What do you think you're doing here?" She said in an angry whisper.

"I'm just here to see John." He replied calmly.

"Oh, well that's absolutely fine then." She said sarcastically "No. Get out. I don't want you here near him.-" she said loudly.

"wha-" Sherlock tried to interjecting, flashing a look back at the unconscious John before concentrating on the woman, who he assumed to be Harriet.

"Leave now. Or I'm calling the police." She said, unwavering.

"Mrs Watson, if you would please be reasonable" Sherlock replied, trying to stay calm. Without warning she grabbed the lapel of his coat and started dragging him towards the door and pushing him out.

"I don't want to see you near my brother ever again" she said, before pulling shut the door.

Sherlock slumped against a wall and ran his fingers through his hair, he stood up quickly as Mycroft came out of the door.

"You told her everything?" Said Sherlock, angrily.

"Just what I needed to." Said Mycroft.

"What did you say? 'My idiot brother tried to kill himself and John went out looking for him'" Said Sherlock, imitating Mycroft's voice. They entered an empty lift and the doors shut behind them.

"Well, there was more detail. But yes…" Said Mycroft. Sherlock glared at him,

"I'll get a taxi home" he said nonchalantly, looking at the buttons on the lift.

"You remember our deal Sherlock. A week." Mycroft looked up and smiled.

Sherlock sighed as they entered the car park. Anything could happen in a week.

#~#

Back in the hospital, Harriet Watson sat by her brothers bed. Her face was tear stained and she clutched a balled up tissue in her hand.

"Get well Johnny" She whispered, stroking his face. She took one last look at his face before she as well left.

Across the room a figure stood in the shows, their eyes followed her as she walked out of the ward.

"This is going to be so much fun" they whispered, smiling. The next game had only just begun.


End file.
